


Loquacious.

by fearless_seas



Series: Thirteen Years. [3]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Awkward Dates, Blow Jobs, Falling In Love, Fights, Injury, Kissing, M/M, Phone Calls & Telephones, Smut, Teasing, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-09 01:28:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15256410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearless_seas/pseuds/fearless_seas
Summary: (a) tending to talk a great deal; talkative.





	Loquacious.

**Author's Note:**

> A day late by I am not really sticking to my ten day schedule because I just post whenever.

**\----- 1984 -----**

**January 1st**

 

          New Years day, Alain receives a call to his home in Switzerland. He stumbles from bed grumbling under his breath to crawl towards the telephone in the kitchen. It was then he realized that it was four fifty-seven in the morning.

          “Hello?”

          “ _Alain!_ ”

          “Nelson?”, Alain rubs his hand over his eyes and sits down at the counter. “You do know what time it is here?”

          “ _Not really_ ,” it was loud wherever he was because Alain can practically feel the bass vibrating through the phone. “ _I don’t give a shit anyways_ ,” he chuckled loudly as if it were one of the funniest things one could ever say.

          Alain settled and rested his head against his palm, “Are you still in Brazil?”

          “ _Yes, my ugly little friend_ ,” this made him roll his eyes and switch the phone to the other ear.

          “What time is it there?”

          “ _Well_ ,” their voice lingered off for a minute with a crackle of connectivity.

          “Nelson?”

          “ _In two minutes it is 1984_ ,” it must be late eleven in the night there. There was a pause on the other end as if he had nothing left to say but stayed on the line for the sake of something else. “ _What did you do to celebrate?_ ”

          “Nothing at all,” that was a lie, he actually took his son Nico ice skating. “And you?”

          Again, a soft laugh, “ _Wouldn’t you like to know…_ ”, they trailed off and a slow, drawn out breath blew over the receiver.

          Alain sat up just a little, “Nelson?” He hummed silently into the phone. “Are you alright?”

          Again, the pause, drawn out and on careful breath. “ _I will see you here in a few months, right?_ ”

          “I can’t miss the season,” he shook his head amusedly.

          “ _But you will be, right?_ ”

          Alain blinked at the question. “Of course, Nelson, where else would I be?”

          There was a puff of hopeful air. “ _Goodnight_ , _Prost,_ ” the phone call ended without Alain’s reply.

 

________________________

**March 25th**

 

          Niki is bent over the car with a perplexed expression as if the vehicle had somehow grown a mouth and personally insulted him. Alain leaned his foot up on the garage lining and tilted his neck back. He allows his eyes to filter over the commotion about him: the mechanics, the engineers and the crowd barking up a storm around them. _Another season, another year_. The racing suit he has on him is sweltering and the heat crawls into the collar of his overalls to strangle him. The people are shouting Nelson’s name from the stands and he passes a wave towards them before turning back. Nelson is smiling (genuine not teasing). He is so caught up that his gaze lingers at the dirt near his feet as if he were attempting to hide it.

          “Do you hear that?”, he gestured towards the spectators. It was oddly pleasing, seeing him so affected by something.

          Alan made a face, “I’m positive the whole grid can.” Niki grumbled something disagreeable but unheard under his breath.

          “Good,” Nelson remarked smugly.

          “Oh shut up, Nelson,” Niki groans and sticks out his tongue. “Don’t you have somewhere to be that is not here?”

          Nelson pushed on their shoulder, “Of course I do, but you both are more interesting so I thought that I would like to grace you all with my presence.”

          Alain and Niki made eye contact for a second as if to say, _dear lord, a compliment? From Nelson Piquet? Highly unlikely_. They did end up leaving soon after, tugging up the racing cuit over his arms at the signaling of the track marshall. Alain is preparing to walk out when the unfamiliar face catches his eye out the corner of his vision from across the paddock. Immediately he shoots his head in that direction and stares for a short moment. Tall, tanned skin and cimmerian hair flattened over the carve of a jaw. It was the calmness that caught his attention, the concentrated slow curl of his eyes and the tight press of his knuckles.

          “Who is that?”, Alain folds to Niki who is behind him with their hat guarded down over their eyes.

          His teammate only shrugged, a downturn of his lips. “A test driver or rookie for Toleman, I don’t know a fucking thing.”

          Alain turns backwards and they are gone now.

          “We have to go,” Ron coaxes them out of the garage, pushing with a light shove onto the pit lane. Alain finds himself scoping back towards that spot as if they’ll reappear from the depths of his memory.

 

_______________________

 

 

          Nelson’s engine gives out early in on lap seven and Alain wins. After the podium he is treading in the pit lane when someone’s arm wraps over his shoulder and moves them into his side.

          “Look at you,” Nelson purrs, “Carrying that first place trophy around like you own this place.” He rubs a hand over his chest and Alain groans and trusts them away. Niki is not very happy, he would’ve won the race if not for an electrical problem.

          “It is supposed to be Niki’s,” he raises the trophy up slightly to inspect it.

          Nelson shrugs, “That’s how this sport is: the heartbreak.” He sets the artifact down on the workbench and peels of his uniform. Nelson is already dressed and he hops up on top of the tabletop as if to catch his attention. “You need to come over tonight,” he moves Alain’s chin up to face him as he is undressing. “I will make that win worth it,” he winks.

          Of course, Alain agrees without question and they exit when he is dressed up. The late afternoon sun is making his already sunburnt cheeks singe even more than they already have. He glances towards the Toleman garage as they pass towards the parking lot, Nelson secretly nudging his back forward. Alain is slightly worried that if they take too long that he’ll take him right here in front of everybody. The stranger makes it into his peripheral vision and when he glances over his shoulder they are there: bitter, brows meeting at the center of his forehead. They make eye contact and Alain smiles politely. He doesn't return this and Alain senses their eyes on him long after he has diverted his in another direction.

          In the parking lot Nelson unlocks his car and Alain steals his way into the passenger seat. He winces immediately at the temperature of the weather seats, “ _Merde_ , don’t you have cold air?”

          “Stop complaining,” Nelson frowns, putting in the key and dialing up the air conditioning just before they reverse.

          Alain sighs and nestles into his seat, lifting his eyes out of the finger and running his fingers over the glass. It’s on the tip of his tongue and he decides to go with it. “Who is the rookie racing for Toleman this year?”, he quizzed, looking towards him.

          Nelson leans closer to the windshield to switch lanes, “Senna or something. I didn’t notice they had a new driver, why are you asking?”

          Alain returns to gawking out of the window and rests his forehead against the glass. “No reason,” he repeats quietly, “No reason.”

          The stranger fades a little from his memory over the next few weeks. (But they are always there somehow, swimming at the back like a sentence one forgets just before they are to speak it.)

 

__________________________

**May 6th**

 

          Ayrton Senna.

          They fail to qualify for San Marino and they are sitting on the ground outside of their garage with their knees up and their elbows rested on them. He excuses himself from Niki’s company and saunters up casually with his hands stuffed into his pockets. His shadow passes over him and he witnesses the stiff mark of frustration creasing up the center of his forehead. They hardly appear to notice him for a long moment, staring off with soft blink towards the road. He hesitates for a second and nearly decides to walk back off because he naturally doesn’t know what he is trying to accomplish here.

          “It does that to you,” he simply asserts. Ayrton notices his presence and his eyes ascend slowly from his shoes to his face as he blocks out the sun. “The sport, racing, it will do that to you,” he swallows and rubs the back of his neck.

          They loosen, shoulders falling just a little. The unreadable, obscure feature of their eyes narrows in and time seems to suspend itself under his scrutiny. He had to be in his early to mid twenties he figures but inwardly they appear much older. It takes a few years in this business before one builds their mark of true confidence, the man in front of him already appeared to have his. Strict trust in his abilities as a driver, not a need to boast or prove anything to anyone.

          “What do you mean?”, Ayrton replies and his gentle voice sounds nearly like a soft whine.

          “It will break your heart,” Alain stiffles, “This won’t be the first time that it does this to you.” He wants to walk away now because he has made his point but he feels drawn to something that is dangerous to him.

          His countenance doesn’t move. “I know,” he remarks, tipping his head to the side almost as if he is silently amused in a way. Alain grins smally and still they don’t recoil. He treads back off and he can hear a reticent _thank you_ , even as it is not said.

 

_________________________

**May 20th**

 

          “Move up a little,” Nelson demands, wrapping his arms around Alain’s legs and slipping him closer to his waist. Alain obliges, scooting down from the pillow until he is closer. He straddles his legs slightly wider in anticipation. He clearly isn’t being a tease because seconds later he grunts and digs his fingertips into Nelson’s shoulder as he pushes into him. Alain is mentally exhausted from today’s race. His attention peers off out of the window distractedly as Nelson picks up the pace into him. Feeling a little lazy he only lays there and begins to relax his limbs.

          “What the hell is up with you?”, Nelson grabs his face forcefully and moves his focus away from his window.

          “What?”

          “You’re distracted,” he grunts, “You’re making me do all the work. How about I lay down, you get up and--”

          “--I’m tired,” Alain interrupts, but to make sure they stop complaining he begins pushing down a little every time they thrust. “What do you think of Senna?”, he questions and perhaps it was a mistake because Nelson recesses for a moment before packing back up.

          “What about him?”, he gravels quietly. He arches over and places his hands on either side of Alain’s frame to position himself better.

          “What do you think of him?”, he asks again. Nelson meets his eyes for a short moment through the wave of his hair until swivels back towards his chest. “He’s Brazilian as well, you know.”

          “Why do you keep talking about him?”, Nelson cements, the veins in his wrists popping out slightly as his breathing quickens. “He is just a rookie, what do I have to worry about?”

          “Right,” Alain considers the window, heat coiling up in his lower stomach as he bites down on his lip.

          “Stop talking about other people while you’re fucking me,” and with that Alain shuts his mouth for good.

 

______________________

**June 3rd**

 

          Monaco was dastardly. So much so the race was cancelled mid way by Jacky Ickx and an accompanying a red-flag. Sure, he only received half of the points he should’ve, but Ayrton was standing next to him on the podium in second. Alain wipes the sweat and rain from his brow, shivering at the frigid weather gathering on the wet fabric of his uniform. He feels slightly overwhelmed at the thought that things could be quite different than this. In this life he is standing on the podium and perhaps in another he is not. He is postulated side by side and Ayrton eyes the glitter in his hands perhaps silently stern that it is not in his. While, on the other hand, Alain is laughing secretly at all this: that in some other lives they are instead apart. It is stupid, these extensive thoughts of his, ones he keeps held up in jaws on shelves in his mind thinking one day they’ll be opened.

 

______________________

**June 17th**

 

          “Mother fucker,” Nelson curses. His face is pale and the lines on his face are rigid, wound up with pain. Alain had just taken his helmet off when the winner collapses on the ground in front of everyone. This barely catches Niki’s attention as he approaches the back of the Brabham and Nelson is being crowded around like honey to a swarm of bees. Alain thought he’d just tripped and he is still trying to calm the tone of his heartbeat as he inclines and pushes the matted hair off of his forehead. His brows crinkles in confusion, he pushes his way around the crowd until he meets Niki near the outer ring.

          “What is going on?”, he inquires, grabbing Niki’s upper arm to stabilize himself. A spacing clears and he manages a glimpse. Nelson is lain out on the ground cursing and swearing like sailor as he rips his clothes off. “What happened to Nelson?” A twinge of fear tightens in his gut.

 

_________________________

 

 

          An hour later Nelson has his legs risen on a chair in the back of the medical facility. He curls his hands over the edge of the chair and his knuckles are like ivory. Every once and while Alain reaches forward to rub his fingers over his hand to remind him to breathe. Sid is standing against the far wall with his arms crossed, over seeing some young mechanic as he wraps gauze over the nasty scarlet burns covering on Nelson’s legs.

          “Watch it!”, he snaps, reclining and slapping at the young man’s hands. He is gasping slow and long, he stiffens his jaw, tilting his head back with his eyes closed. “ _Merda_ ,” he hisses and peers down for a moment at his bare legs and the white bandaging. “Those fucking water coolers,” he moans, “Those _fucking_ water coolers.” Everytime he repeats it, it arrives even angrier. Nelson’s hand shoots to Alain’s wrist suddenly and he digs his nails into the skin enough to leave little half-moon crescents when he pulls away.

          “It will be over soon,” Alain soothes gently.

          Nelson turns his head and his eyes are twitching as he tries to hold in pain. “Let me curse, if you were burnt by your own car you would do the same.” As if on queue he swears and leans forward, hitching his breath and snapping his leg away. “Sid,” he pans his focus to the corner of the room, “Why don’t you do it instead?”

          Sid waves him away, “Too old.”

          Nelson’s body falls. “I’m too young,” he smiles sarcastically, “Is that a good excuse for me?”

 

_______________________

**June 18th**

 

          “I thought you’d be more careful,” Nelson grumbles, crossing his arms as Alain unwraps the gauze over his right leg from the previous day. He shifts and Nelson places his back against the board behind the bed. Eventually, Alain tosses that into the garbage and tracks a new roll of bandages to wrap around the burns.

          “Does it hurt?”, he tries to distract Nelson from grinding his teeth together.

          “Of course it fucking hurts, what did you think?”, he retorts, diverting his leg.

          “Stop moving.”

          “If you didn’t make it hurt so much then I wouldn’t have to!”

          Alain sighs, “Do you want it to get better or not?” Nelson consigns himself to this and his shoulders lower slightly.

          “You know what you could actually do to make me feel better?”, he pouts his lower lip and Alain looks up. They are widened their eyes and blinking with a flutter of their lashes.

          “And what is that?”, but he already knows plenty well and his face is so close to their crotch.

          Nelson tugs up their jaw just as he is reapplying his first twist over the area. “You could suck my cock,” he pushes on their cheeks, “That would help me.” Alain does another wrap and then kisses his inner thigh, he is already only in his boxers and a white t-shirt. Nelson bucks up against the touch and then makes an unsatisfied sound when the brush moves away. He repeats this, another turn and then placing his lips higher onto the skin there. Eventually he finishes, rising himself until he is lying on their thighs and he tugs on the hem of their underwear. Nelson smirks and places his hands behind his head. It goes like that, Nelson ripping on his hair and filling up his mouth.

          “God,” he whimpers, “Why do you get better when I am in agony?”

          Alain shrugs to talk but Nelson pushes his face back down.

 

________________________

**July 7th**

 

          “Let’s get out of here,” Nelson lifts his head up. He is hanging half off of the hotel room bed upside down with his hands laced over his stomach.

          Alain doesn’t take him seriously, he flips the page of his book and pays him no mind. “And go where?”, he muttered.

          “Anywhere,” Nelson slid off the bed until he is postulated back onto his feet. He flops down on his stomach next to him. His head flips over from the pillow and Alain was convinced for a moment he was falling asleep until his eyes opened to look at him. “We always sit inside like sorry asses, we should go out and do something.”

          Alain resigns, closing his book and placing it on the bedside table on his right. “Why?”

          Nelson narrows his brows, “Why not?”

          “Why?”, Alain calmly repeats.

          They sit up on the mattress and grab his shoulders as if he were to deliver urgent news. “Have you ever tried a real American cheeseburger?”

 

_________________________

 

 

          It’s a dimly lit and surprisingly quiet burger joint within walking distance of the hotel. A sweet, blonde waitress with a cracking accent places their food down in front of them with a kind simper. Alain gawkes down at it, poking at it with his fork.

          “How do I eat it properly?”, it’s not ordinary burger. A mile high with every topping under the bun that you could imagine.

          “You are useless,” Nelson shakes his head and reaches at his own food. “Look,” he grabs it up in two hands, “You pick it up like this… and then…”, he took a bite and scrunched his nose.

          Alain still appears slightly uncertain and he was quite accustomed to having to taste foreign food. “You can’t expect me to eat this entire thing!”, he points at it and tries to bring a fork and knife to cut it into halves.

          Nelson clutches his heart mockingly, “I have to hide you, I can’t embarrass myself in front of the American folk with your stupidity.”

          “Ha-ha,” Alain mocks before beginning to eat it with his fork. The table is small, round and the street outside is shadowing the large window, the road slick with the scan of a few oncoming car headlights. Alain moves his head towards the view as he chews, watching the tall buildings. He moves back and Nelson rapidly averts his eyes away from him guilty. “What the hell,” Alain taps his utensil against the rim of their plate, “You’re already done?”

          They smile and shrug their shoulders, “Don’t tell Bernie, he will make me cut off a finger to take weight off the car for the race.” Alain only returns the expression, his eyes trailing carefully over the other side of the table: the tapping of Nelson’s fingers on the tabletop and his drowning features. He has those eyes: murky, mischievous and so very full of everything. Every movement of his face is thought and precise without meaning to, guarded and unsure of all about him. It’s not an expansive distance, they hold everything close and guarded against their chest. Alain wonders sometimes, ponders what exactly makes a man so careful, so unsure of himself. “Well,” Alain pretended not to be staring as Nelson leans his chin on his elbow, “Was it worth it to get off of your ass?”

          Alain hesitates to build tension, “Yes, thank you.”

          Nelson does something unexpected then. He reaches out a hand and places it on top of Alain’s which is lying on the table surface. He cradles it there for a second before beginning to rub the pad of his thumb over the top, slow and careful as if he is afraid to do so. The touch shifted, rolled under towards his palm to twist it over. It is subtle, his fingers crawling and sending shivers from the palm to the roots of his spine. The veins in their wrist shine against the ceiling lights, illuminate themselves, stretching as he folds all their fingers together and joins them.

 _Why hold on to someone if you’re just going to let go of them eventually_.

          Alain slides his hand, pushing away, wiping his mouth and jumping down from his stool. “We should go, we race each other tomorrow.”

          Nelson’s hand is still resting there expectedly and he blinks for a moment at his extension. Slowly his eyes roll up and he smirks, “Always the little rule keeper, are you?”

          The walk back to the hotel is reticent except for the occasional passing car or drunk couple stumbling out of a corner bar clinging to each other as though life depends upon it. Nelson shoves his hands into his pockets and whistles occasionally, their shoulders brushing on the sidewalk and bumping into each other on the uneven pavement. They tread a little ahead, a side of him so dark that even the stars cannot shine or shed any light upon it. Maybe they were stumbling around for the right words to say. In front of his door, he unlocks it and Nelson stands outside the frame as if expecting to be asked inside. He takes a step forward and opens his mouth to speak.

          Alain shuts the door halfway and speaks before he can say what they mean to. “Goodnight, Nelson,” he closes it completely and steps back only when the shadows interrupting the bulbs from the hallway disappear.

 

________________________

**August 19th**

 

 _Alain yearns to rip off his shoes and throw them at Nelson_.

          Nelson is at his door, angled against the frame with a frown.

 _They are on the podium with a smug grin on their face_.

          Alain hankers to yell at him then and there and his brows merge. Before he can do anything Nelson forces himself farther into the room and pushes them on top of the bed.

 _Everyone is angry at them_.

          “You cannot stay mad at me forever,” he hums, dragging his hips closer.

 _Alain is irritable to say the least_.

          He feels the tension in his shoulders dwindle away when Nelson puts his mouth to his cock.

 _He wants to take the second place trophy and shove it deep down his throat_.

          Alain grasps the sheets and his thighs tighten around their head.

 _Nelson got greedy on the formation lap and made him run his tires_.

          His hips buck up and hands slam to push his knees apart. “Do you want this or not?”, it is accompanied with a grimace. Alain whines, nodding and thrusting his neck back.

 _He hates him so very much_.

          Nelson leaves him wishing for breath and still squinting his eyes shut when they get up to spit into the bathroom sink.

_Yes, he does._

          They return and tell him, “Wipe that bullshit pout off your face, I just gave you great head.”

 _Fucking bastard_.

          Alain chuckles and opens his eyes, “Seeking my approval?”

 _He wonders if they really do it all just for the sex_.

          Nelson gives up and slams the door, allowing Alain to nestle into his euphoria alone.

 

________________________

**September 6th**

 

         

          Ayrton isn’t in Italy for the race. After a little investigation he finds that they were suspended for a race by Toleman. It is incredible, he barely knows the man and his all-consuming presence is enough to make him feel slightly alone. He is getting nervous and his habit of biting his nails has come back.

          “I am going to win the world championship this year,” he states to Nelson.

          He in turn raises a brow, “Okay.”

          “I will not lose it again,” Alain confirms, stepping closer to him.

          “Okay.”

          “I deserve it.”

          “Okay.”

          Alain presses on his chest, “Is there not anything else you can say?”

          Nelson grins and goes to join Niki a few paces away. He turns around, walking backwards as he talks, “If you say so, honey.”

          Alain curses and waves him away.

 

___________________________

**October 6th**

 

          The FIA haven’t penciled in a race at Nurburgring since 1976. For some reason Alain expects Niki to be slightly erratic this weekend, and he isn’t. But he does see him run a hand over the side of their head where an ear is absent. Other than that, Niki is… well, as Niki as he is always been. He continues to offer his smart remarks on everything with a shake of his finger and some off-putting expression. Nelson gets along with them better. Niki is also quieter this weekend, only slightly, barely noticeable but he is.

          “Do you think he is alright?”, Alain whispers and Nelson leans in closer to catch his words. He gives a confused glance and the Austrian has his arms crossed and his hat tugged over his eyes as he speaks with Ron at the far wall. “Niki, I mean.”

          Nelson peers in the direction then back again, “Why wouldn’t he?”

          Alain rubs the back of his arm, “Well, it’s not like half of his face was burnt off at this circuit or anything.”

          “Oh,” Nelson says, “Right.” They both take a moment to study him, the intense scrutinization he gives everything. “He is Niki Lauda, he is always fine. I wouldn’t worry.”

          Alain isn’t. But he still watches him closer as if at any moment they’ll break down and crumble to ashes right in the center of the garage. At least he’ll have the championship in the bag if that happened.

 

_________________________

 

 

          On race day, Niki takes a walk of the track and invites Alain to go with him. At a particular corner he paused, the circuit narrowed in by picturesque trees lining the track scenery. His hands go into his McLaren overalls and he has a peculiar expression on his face.

          Alain hesitates a moment in the silence of the atmosphere and the environment before coming up next to him nervously. “Why are we stopping?”, he inquired. Niki doesn’t say anything, he only places his hand upon the barrier in front of him, looking up and down the particular corner. “What are you doing?”, maybe he’s getting a little worried he’s gone mad.

          Niki grunts and removes his sunglasses with a sapphire glint in his eye. “Looking for my ear.”

 

__________________________

**October 21st**

 

          The only words Niki graces him with when he loses the championship is, “There is always next year.”

          That’s what he told himself last year. Maybe even the year before that and so forth. He lays on his bed and rips the telephone chord out of the socket, sitting only in the languid peace that surrounds him. A piece of him is furious at himself for letting it slip away by half a point. Half of a fucking point. There is a knock on the door at nine at night and he demurs, wondering if he should roll around in his own misery or be sensible and answer the door. He chooses the latter.

          “How do you feel?”, Nelson ponders, folded against the wall and speaking gingerly. That might be one of the only times he has every asked him that. Alain could throw him out because he knows plenty well that they know how he is feeling. He doesn’t answer instead. Alain still has champagne in his hair, he had collapsed on the bed as soon as he had gotten back. They cautiously approach the bed and sit on the end of it, the mattress lifting slightly under his weight.

          “Will I ever win?”, Alain notices that he himself sounds tired. Exhausted of so many things. Nelson blinks as if he is stiff to answer. “The championship, it has slipped away twice now, so I repeat to you,” he sits up and faces him, “Will I ever win?”

          Nelson swallows and uncrosses his arms, glancing towards the carpet. “Yes,” he replies cautiously.

          “How do you know?”

          “I don’t,” he said, “But it is what you want to hear and it is what I believe.”

          “Why?”

          “You are a better racer than Niki, than Nigel or Keke, everyone,” Alain feels oddly warm so he scoots closer, the bed sheets rustling as he closes on them. “Stop sulking, that will not do you any good.”

          Nelson shifts a little instinctively. Alain sighs, “Let's talk about something else.”

          “What do you want to hear?”, he offers.

          Alain pulls his attention to his hands, “When did you start racing?”

          For some reason, Nelson’s shoulder loosen and he shuts his eyes as if submitting himself to a foreign dream. “You should know better than to dig.”

          “I am not digging,” Alain pushes him playfully, “Go on.”

          “I was fourteen," he shrugs, "There was not a lot for a kid to do, we had one tv channel and all I could do was read or jack off all the time and you know me...”, Alain rolls his eyes at this. “It was karting, we all start like that. I already knew English by then, my father sent me to America to play tennis. It’s fucking boring, horrid, all for those stuck up boys with papa’s money stuffing the lining of their pockets. I used my mother’s maiden name to kart, but of course my father found out. My father and I never got along, I was the youngest boy, you can understand what that is like. I’ll remember my father’s face forever, god, I was bruised up for weeks afterwards,” he smoothed back his hair. “I couldn’t do school, racing was all I had so I dropped out of university and was living on my friend’s floor without any money. I got a job at the garage and Emerson Fittipaldi financed my racing in Formula Vee. Nobody is classier than Emmo.”

          “Why did you start?”, Alain interrupts.

          “Start?”

          “Racing.”

          “Oh,” Nelson nods, “Something to take the edge off. The closeness to death, I never quite fit in my family, you know? Odd one out of the whole lot. I was a stupid kid, it was a way to get my family to notice me, to bring attention to myself. I got a little older and it was the way it made me feel. You get into the car and you get rid of everything outside of it from start to finish. Nothing matters when the flag drops but the racing, nothing else. No bullshit, or family or disappointments. Just racing.”

          “My god,” Alain hisses, Nelson peels his eyes open, “You can speak sometimes!”

          “Fuck off,” Nelson growls, “That is enough of that now.”

          “No!”, Alain lays back on the comforter, “Continue, please.”

          “Sorry, you lost your privileges,” he growls. It grows silent for a moment, the only sound was the steady stream of breathing and the occasional rustle of sheets over warm skin. Alain figures he’ll have to question him about himself more some other time. “You are better, though?”, he calls and Alain lifts his eyes. Nelson observes him, stretching out over the end of the bed.

          Alain nods his head, “In a way.”

          “There is always next year.”

          “I know,” he bemoans.

          Nelson kisses him after and his lips taste different than anytime before. The intention and brush of palms telling him things he’s never heard in these years. It feels like a gift, given to him in a tiny, wrapped box with wax string. A fragile, delicate thing. It’s the first night that he doesn’t leave for the sun rises. The only night where Alain has another man in his bed when the sky brightens to bless its rays across inches and miles of calloused skin. He wonders if maybe it feels better this way. He makes sure to shut the door silently to not wake up Nelson as he leaves him cradling and frowning in his sleep.

 _There is always next year_.

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me on Tumblr @pieregasly or @sonofhistory, if you read it please leave a comment. Seriously, leave a comment. Anyways, thanks for being here!


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